the HBO binge

hollow eyed and tired

stretched out on

the long couch, 

almost done with

the eight hour

binge

of Succession.

it's a drug,

a numbing, a visual

Ambien

swallowed whole,

but you have to see

what happens

to all these despicable

people

in the end.

a trip to the store

for more

drinks and snacks

before the final hour

and a half begins.

i hate these people.

the smell of bacon

there's something about

waking

up and smelling bacon

frying in a pan,

in the kitchen down below

and then having

someone yell up,

breakfast is almost ready,

come on down.

ahh, how it wafts in the air.

it smells like hope,

like happiness,

like maybe, just maybe

that everything will be

okay after all.

the milk is really good, but

will you marry me,

she asks in a loving whisper,

as we lie

exhausted, basking in

the afterglow

of making love.

huh?

i say, what brings

that up?

well,

my mother says that

you're getting the milk

for free,

without buying

the cow.

what?

what cow?

i don't understand

the metaphor.

she's calling you a cow?

that's not nice.

oh you, she says. i'm not a cow.

i'm not saying the milk

isn't good,

i tell her,

but do we need to sign

a business contract

to keep it flowing?

geezer or buffoon?

which dope

to vote for, that's the question.

the old

geezer who

keeps falling down and can't

string three words

together that make

any sense,

or the orange buffoon,

blowing hot

air as he breaks every rule.

how can this be,

in a country so full of

brilliant people, honest

people.

righteous souls, and not have

a single person

that can lead?

the bank hold up

my bank

teller, at the drive through,

Kamil,

tells me about

the new 4 percent

interest in saving accounts.

he insists

i go in and talk

to the manager.

you are wasting your money,

he says.

i nod, i smile. i know, i know,

i tell him.

but he persists.

i'm not doing your transaction

or giving you back

your id until you

come in, he says.

come on Kamil,

i tell him, tomorrow,

okay.

i promise.

no he says, and reaches in

his drawer for

a gun, he shows it to me

waving it at the window,

and whispers, now.

come in now or else.

interest on savings accounts

have never

been this high,

get in here. get in here now.

okay, okay, i tell him,

don't shoot,

let me pull around.

the uncut apron strings

as the child

gets older, and grey

hair appears,

she tightens the apron

strings.

not yet,

she says.

not yet.

there's still so much

more to teach him,

to give him.

to coddle him about.

perhaps another year

under my care,

and we'll think about it.

thirty-five

is still young, yes?

sort of listening

i stuff

cotton in my ears. pushing

the soft white

balls

of fur

deep into the ear

canal.

muffling all that makes

noise around

me.

i'm underwater,

but i have air.

go ahead now, and speak,

i'm sort

of listening.

the corner store

the corner store,

is open,

i hope.

does he ever close his

doors and

treat a holiday

as sacred,

lock up

and go home.

i hope not as i take

the elevator

down

in my pajamas for

a pint of cream,

and paper,

the coffee

almost ready.

what's happening?

when the ambulance

arrived

they took the woman out

on a stretcher.

she wasn't dead,

or sick,

she was having a baby

and screaming

her lungs out.

as curious young boys,

our stick ball game

in the street delayed,

we peered inside

the long windows of

the ambulance,

pressing our faces to the glass,

and shrugged,

wondering why.

what's the view like?

the view

is everything.

do you get the sun in

the morning?

can you see the ocean,

or at least

a pond, a splash

of water?

is there greenery

when you

open the blinds,

peer over the sill,

can see birds in flight,

see the moon

at night?

it's all about the view,

even if

you're in a cell

doing a long stretch

of hard time.

did he love you?

was he a perfect father?

no.

loving yes

in his own

self-absorbed way,

the definition of what

a narcissist is,

yes

he had faults,

a litany of faults,

the list

too long to list.

some passed

down to me

and brothers,

sisters,

but did he love you.

love them all,

of course.

of course he did.

dirt and seed

does he miss

his garden, a small dry square

of yard

beside the air conditioner

unit,

the concrete patio

and awning.

does he miss the tomatoes

and green beans.

lettuce,

tending to the soil,

the weeds,

stiffening the fence to

keep the rabbits out.

eighty years of dirt and seed.

of watering.

now done.

a shift in the wind

things have changed.

there's

a shift in the wind,

the sea

has risen.

i see it in your eyes,

hear it

in your voice.

things have changed,

and not

for the better.

who knows what

tomorrow

brings and nothing

will delay that 

in the end.

go ask Alice

it's a rabbit hole,

this phone.

how easily we slide

inside

the dark hole.

hours slipping by

like seconds,

the voices on each

side,

convincing us

of rights and wrongs.

what's true

is false,

what's false is true.

the world

is a spinning top

inside here,

we are Alice

in wonderland.

a world where none

of us belong.

ballot stuffing

i give you

my vote. here take my

ballot,

it's yours.

circle, or mark your

wish,

your choice.

leave me out of this.

what point

is there,

when nothing,

nothing every changes,

when there is no

true voice.

what pain does

step

on a nail, a shard

of glass,

catch your hand

in a door,

fall down

a flight of stairs and

all else

dissolves

into almost nothing.

what bothered you

so,

controlled

your waking moments,

those thoughts

now fail.

have your own island with crypto

the man

on the phone suggests

that i invest

in crypto currency.

what is crypto, i ask him.

he goes on

talking

for about twenty minutes

explaining to me

what it is.

i still don't understand

a single word

he's saying.

don't worry, he says.

no need to understand it,

no one really knows

how it works.

but your money will grow

and grow

beyond your wildest

dreams.

just give me five thousand

dollars to start with

and you'll see.

think Musk, think Gates,

think Zuckerberg.

you too can have

your own island,

like Epstein.

come on, take a shot,

take a chance, you only

live once, invest your money

with me.

can we stay here forever?

we settle

into the sand. it's warm,

but doable.

enough

clouds cover the sun.

the ocean

seems friendly today.

the blue,

the whites.

neither too cold or

warm

against our toes.

there are

sailboats in the distance.

gulls

with spread wings

diving

for life.

can we stay here forever,

she asks,

with book in her lap,

dropping her sunglasses

so that i can

see her eyes.

why not, i say.

why not.

the big rainbow in the sky

there is a holiday

for everything

now.

a month set aside to soothe

your troubles.

a paper

reward, a day off

in the sun.

a hallmark card

for

every race, every creed,

every color,

every sexual preference,

each desire

recognized.

everyone

gets one.

it's the American way

of life.

the big imaginary rainbow

in the sky,

strike up the band

and have

a picnic, a march,

a parade down main street.

let's make

it all peachy keen again,

make everyone feel

alright.

eat, eat, eat

please

don't get healthy

the doctor

says,

the food industry pleads.

please

eat it all.

all the sugar,

all the bread, all the oils

that we make.

our lively hood depends

upon your

belief in the foods

we magically create,

the chemically altered

grub

on the shelf.

please don't get healthy.

take

the pills we dispense

when you become

diabetic

and fat.

when your joints ache,

your heart

breaks,

please don't get healthy,

eat, eat, eat

and drink our caramelized

sugar waters.

be merry as you wobble

down

our path.

here, have a smoke

while you're at it.

fat is good, fat is fun,

it's fat pride month,

have another tootsie roll,

another cinnamon bun.

the retirement garden

she's planning

for her retirement.

figuring out her next move,

another way

to make a buck.

what to do with all

the time.

all those hours and years

ahead of me?

it's frightening,

she said.

to have that much time

in your hands

with nothing

much to do.

i'm not a house cat,

i have to wander,

to explore, maybe take

up yoga,

start a garden.

how about you?

paying up front

a beauty, and discreet,

he paid her

well

for services rendered.

what's

the difference, he said,

with drink in

hand, tanned

and lying by the pool,

wife

or escort?  in the end

we pay,

so why not pay up

front and know

what you're getting

before 

they walk away.

the family

is any family

tight,

close.

blood bound by

parental

birth?

are we doomed to

like

each other despite

our differences,

or love even,

a reach hard to find

with anyone,

no matter how nice.

it's myth,

i think,

as i look around

at my

brood,

my brothers and sisters

who can't

gather for a meal,

or wedding,

or funeral

without a fight.

dixie in nyc

the dog,

a country dog, named

Dixie,

long before woke culture

took over our

sensibilities,

went on holiday

with her owner, Phoebe,

but the dog had a hard time

in new york city.

what's all the noise,

the commotion.

horns beeping, the ceaseless

traffic,

and pigeons.

why so many pigeons.

not a patch of grass to be

found.

uninterested in

pizza crusts

and hot dogs tossed

to the ground.

she couldn't even lift

her leg

to go in Bryant Park,

or Union Square,

or even Central Park

a six mile walk from

the Roosevelt Hotel.

she held it in for three days

until she was on the train

again

and heading home.

how much?

do the rich

ever ask how much.

of course

they do.

they wouldn't be wealthy

if they didn't,

and for us,

we're almost poor

because we don't.

gravity wins out

put something

in the air

and eventually it has to come

down.

satellite

or plane, a colorful

balloon.

no matter how pretty

the flight,

in time gravity wins out.

you can

only go around

for so long

in life.

but you know that,

don't you?

no strings attached

no strings attached

to this

relationship. we come and go

as we please,

with no one to answer to.

we are free agents

on the market,

available

any day of the week.

we're free

with benefits.

it's the new world, 

the new age,

beware of std's.

the fork in the road

i plot out

the trip around the beltway

to hang three sheets

of pre-pasted wallpaper.

my GPS

suggests going

through town.

dopes. 

take 395

to the 3rd street tunnel,

then somehow find 16th street

and go straight

for about an hour. or, what

you can do is take Memorial Bridge

to the Whitehurst freeway

up  through Rock Creek Park,

making a hard left

onto Connecticut.

MapQuest says no,

hell no.

don't go that way.

what are you nuts.

how about you

circle around, over the

Wilson Bridge, into

PG county,

towards Baltimore,

stay in the right lane,

it's Ben Hur over there.

keep going until you

reach New Hampshire

Avenue, route 29,

otherwise known as 

Colesville Road.

the sign will say Monroeville

in fifteen miles,

but ignore that.

take that exit and keep

driving.

I check with Waze.

for a third opinion.

it suggests taking a large

thermos

of hot coffee, stop for

gas and a donut, then take

the beltway around through

Fairfax County, keep going,

keep going, soon

you'll be in Maryland,

when you see that crazy 

Mormon Temple, you're getting

close.

slow down, curve ahead.

traffic.

you should have brought an

empty cup to pee in.

there is no option to fly.

help will come along

this thick mud

holding me stuck, my boots

sunken into

the wet

sludge.

i can't get out, i can't

reach the other side

of this

quagmire.

this stagnant

swamp of life.

help will come along,

i hope.

husband on a leash

i don't think i'll win

yard of the year this year either.

not after

spray painting the dead bush

white.

Home and Gardens

will not be calling.

in fact, i may be in  trouble,

fined by the powers that be,

three women

walking around with clipboards

and a husband

on a leash.

they've landed

the meteor, a blue green

flash

of light

finds it's way to us,

streaking

across the sky.

just a rock, people,

just a rock

on fire.

relax kids, do your

homework.

there's school tomorrow.

cakes rising

i'm thinking

that the neighbor has other

things

on her mind

as she knocks at the door

in her yellow apron,

wanting yet

another cup of sugar.

yesterday it was

butter,

the day before that eggs.

now a bowl

and a mixer she wants.

there'd better be

a cake rising

at some point.

it's your turn soon

it's your turn soon,

be patient

you tell the child in his chair,

the young

man

under thirty,

there will be your

time.

you'll work, you'll marry.

children will arrive.

you'll live

over there.

be patient, be patient,

you'll reach a point,

when you lean

on your cane,

your hair gone grey

and wish that

it was all yet not there.

when her day is over

at night,

she takes her mask off

and sets it on the dresser,

beside her wig,

her teeth,

her smile. 

her empathy and good will.

she's no longer who she

pretends to be.

but it's dark,

the lights are off

and no one can see.

who am i 

to rat her out

as she closes her eyes

beside me.

who can you trust?

i make

my dog my confidant,

but can i trust

him?

he's so easily persuaded

by a thrown

ball,

a bone.

a piece of cheese and

suddenly

he's all yours.

am i really that alone?

when the spine tingles

we smell

danger, taste it, before

it happens.

we sense

what's dark, what's in

the night

unseen.

we feel it in the gaze

of another.

we see the rolled up fist,

the loaded gun,

the betrayal

before it even exists.

fear

is survival,

believe it.

the lavender air

in the train station

in Paris,

a century ago,

they would perfume the air

while

the windows

were shut tight.

they would

push the scent of lilacs

and lavender

into the high glassed

ceilings.

politics

are like that.

it wasn't meant to be

it's the sister

kiss,

the friend farewell,

the nudge

of cheek

to cheek.

take care, be well.

it's the wave from

the door,

the closing

of the door, it just

wasn't meant

to be.

treading life

below

water, you look up into

the green,

the swirl

of all around you.

it's not your place

to be,

but here you are,

floating

below the surface,

holding your

breath,

treading life,

beneathe

the sea.

the retirement party

i start planning

my retirement party.

i tell my dog and cat all

about

the festivities,

the dog seems to be more

interested than

the cat, per usual.

i order food, some drinks,

party hats.

a bottle of non-alcoholic

champagne.

i buy a gold watch for

forty years served.

a funny card or two.

i make a banner that reads,

we'll miss you. good luck!

balloons would be nice.

maybe i can get someone,

a bikini model,

to jump out of a cake

and surprise me.

or is that just for birthdays?

is this yours?

i find

an earring under the bed.

just one.

it's gold

in color, small and delicate,

a trace of dust

hanging on.

i set it on

the table, but

i'm afraid to ask

is this yours?

finding another way

you can't fathom

being

blind.

not seeing color.

not

observing this life

with eyes.

depending

on touch

and sound to get by.

trusting your

nose.

and yet, we survive.

we evolve.

somehow, we find a way,

to be less

than blind.

this peach

this peach, 

this piece of fruit in my hand,

with velvet skin,

this dribble

of juice

on my chin, it has a flavor

all it's own.

nothing quite

like it.

unique, different, sweet.

not unlike you.

spanx

looking out

my window to check

the weather,

i notice

that my new neighbor,

Amber, 

the flight attendant likes

to sunbathe

in the nude

in her backyard.

so far no one has complained,

but if i answer the door

in my underwear

that look like spanx,

the cops

are on their way,

turning on their party lights.

zombie land

there are a lot

of people getting run over

by buses

and cars,

bumping their faces

on signs,

breaking knees on

fire hydrants.

falling off of curbs.

they are hypnotized

by their phones.

they can't take a second

to look up

from the screens,

so they get injured,

or die.

just one more scroll,

one more scroll.

you have to see this one

with a bird.

my summer home

i redecorate

my summer home.

throw in another fake

plant.

a picture for the wall.

some people call it my basement.

but i call

it my summer

home,

my retreat from

the heat.

it's cooler down there.

more shade

more room to stretch out.

even my dog

thinks it's the bomb.

there's a big

fan, there's windows

if a breeze occurs.

if you want me, or need

anything, you'll know

where to find me.

in my summer home

twelve steps down.

the matador

she wants

pink walls, he wants blue.

nothing

has changed

since either one of them

was a child,

at two.

Hemmingway's mother

put him in

a dress

at an early age,

he never quite got over it,

killing bull

after bull.

all quiet on the western front

as the war

goes on, far far away

from here,

you lose

interest.

the thrill is gone.

you have things to do.

wash the car,

mow the lawn.

throw something on

the grill

for dinner.

you stop thinking

about bombs

and bullets.

death and destruction.

who's winning?

you make a drink,

crack some

ice, slice a lime,

then pour

out a shot

of gin.

maybe later

you'll catch up

and watch a little of

the news.

three days at the Broadmore

your feet

will be in the sand soon.

you'll spread your

blanket,

corner to corner,

twist the umbrella in for shade.

you'll

have salt

in your eyes.

your ears and nose

will be

crusted with

sand and ocean.

the sun will bake you

red.

the book in your lap

will never

get past page one.

you will lie out on

the red

raft and float.

you will raise your

head and look

when someone yells

out, porpoise, but you

don't care.

you'll paddle

away from shore.

leaving the boardwalk

behind you.

how far away is France?

back on the horse

get back

on the horse, they say,

after

falling off.

so you do after

surgery

and a year of mending

broken bones.

at last

you're back in the saddle.

are you more

careful now,

yes, you are, 

but only for a little

while.

the frayed wire

the frayed wire

connected

to the light and down

to the socket

sizzles

with a sting of current.

a flame

shoots out

when the plug goes in.

some smoke.

a buzz of sorts.

it's time for more

duct tape

before the house

burns down.

salt and sweet

eat

when you're hungry

is a lost

idea

in this country.

there's too much

in front of us.

our eyes are full

of possibilities

of salt and sweet

wrapped in colorful

bags

and boxes.

everything fried

in oil.

the trend is now

obese.

diabetes and heart

disease.

we are sugar fiends.

it's almost like they

want to make us

sick.

keep us fat and ill,

full of pills.

mindless sheep.

big pharm and general

mills

laughing all the way

to the bank.

two cherry pies

she wasn't happy

until

everyone told her 

that her cherry pie 

was the best,

wiping their lips

of red,

then patting their bellies,

before having

a second helping.

she always made two pies, 

she was that in need

of love and affection.

almost desperate,

one might guess.

it's all still there

i do a drive

by

the old house i grew up in.

it's still there

because it's made of brick

and concrete,

stone.

it will be there until

the end of time,

until the big

one blows.

i want to knock on the door

and go in,

take a look

at the rooms.

the basement.

the one bathroom

on the second floor.

i want to open the closets,

the cupboards.

i want

to slam the screen

door.

i want to hear voices,

see faces.

i want to be sure that what

was, was real,

not

a memory exaggerated

by time

and distance.

i want to sit on the front

porch and watch the sun

go down

beyond

the bowling alley

beyond the barbed wire fence

that kept

us from drowning

in the storm sewer.

the patient cat

the way

this lid is stuck on the carton

of cream,

unturnable, screwed

tight by some

machine,

sums up

nearly everything

i'm feeling

at the moment.

do i throw it across

room

in anger, or find the pliers

and screw driver

to pry

open the cap?

the cat on the counter

waits patiently

for my decision.

a mini mental breakdown

in the middle of a mini

mental

breakdown,

i come to the conclusion

that i don't like

people.

people in general

are mean and nasty.

cruel

and unkind.

they only need you

when they

want something,

but then someone calls

me up

out of the blue,

to go out for

dinner

and a movie.

and i change my mind.

hair today, gone tomorrow

hair

is so overrated

i've an

abundance

and shortage.

i've been Elvis

and Paul

McCartney at times.

Winston

Churchill too.

it's been brown and blonde,

a reddish hue.

i've waxed it back

in the punk era,

and shaved it

down to nearly nothing.

resembling

a moon.

it grows

in my ears now,

my nose.

baby like

hairs sprout from

the top

of my scalp,

is it coming back

for a final run?

my arms are thick

with it.

silver and gold.

it's dry brush

from the neck down.

i try to stay

away from

grills and matches.

hair is never quite done.

no one fails anymore

i've yet

to meet a teacher who loves

her job

anymore,

the unruly

children,

the oppressive parents,

the system

of woke culture.

an F is easily

made into a B.

what was once a calling

is now

a burden, as they

count the years before

retirement.

etching marks

above their bed, on

the wall.

i want your forgiveness

there's a knock

at the door.

a small old woman

with a cane

is standing there,

i can barely see the top

of her head

through the peephole.

she's a skeleton

in a dress.

who is it, i yell out.

but she doesn't answer.

what are you selling,

i ask.

i crack the door open.

i want to talk, she says.

i want your forgiveness.

i'm sorry.

do i know you?

yes, she says. don't

you remember?

and then i do as i look

into her sad eyes.

i remember all too well

who she is.

closing the door tightly,

and locking it.

mystery fish

i knew

what we were having

for dinner

that night, when i saw

the box of frozen

fish sticks in the sink.

enough ketchup

on them,

will take

care of almost anything.

love like no other

they were glued

together

by psychological disorders.

one couldn't

leave

the other.

it was a sticky mess

of object

consonance,

fears of abandonment,

drowning

in the dysfunction

of their own

distress.

narcissists and borderlines

together,

a poisonous

mix,

but the therapists

loved them

as they cashed the checks.

here today

there

is little mourning

for much

of what lives.

things

come and go at a rapid

pace.

morning, noon,

and night,

the show goes on.

birth and death,

hand in hand.

there's so little time

to grieve,

to cry.

the bank robbery note

after

the bank was almost robbed,

the criminals

caught

in a shoot out,

they find the note

on the floor, asking for

all the money

in small bills.

empty the safe it says,

put it all in this bag,

or else.

but on the back of the note,

is a grocery list.

bread, eggs,

milk.

ice cream and potato chips.

beer

and coffee.

Greek yogurt and pistachio

nuts.

then there's a little heart

with an arrow through it.

love, Emily, it says,

be careful and

hurry back.

we have time, she says

we should

go before the rain starts,

i tell her.

she looks

up at the sky, and says

let's wait.

we have time.

but we don't and it begins

to pour.

in minutes

we're soaked to the bone.

now?

i ask. to which she smiles

and says,

okay.

sure.

can we count on you for support

election

season is heating up.

the texts

and e-mails, the barrage of phone

calls

and knocks on the door

are relentless.

you can smell desperation.

can we count on your

support

for this guy, or that guy,

this woman?

all colors, sizes and ages.

i've never seen or heard

of any of them before.

democrat, republican.

fascists or communist?

who knows.

what's the point anymore?

let them fight it out

in a cage, or take an

intelligence test, see who

gets the best score.

not unexpected

there was always a kid

in the neighborhood who figured

out how to

put a nail on the end of

a stick

and then went

hunting for frogs or fish

in the creek.

he was usually a strange

kid, with crazy parents,

in a house your mother never

let you visit.

you always wondered what

happened to them,

those kids with the nails

on the end of a stick,

looking to stab something.

you're not surprised when you see

them in the metro section

of the paper, a picture of

them in handcuffs, smiling.

the tilt a whirl

they put

the carnival up in about an hour

in the abandoned mall

parking lot.

are these

the rides you want

to put

your two year old kid on?

a thousand pieces of metal

strewn

together in the dead

night

by circus people.

and now

you hand your kid to someone

with no teeth,

covered in

tattoos, and wearing a shirt

saying that

Satan is alright.

what could go wrong

you think, as the man

with one eye turns

to you

and says, don't worry dad,

we buckled him in

real tight.

there's love and then there's home

she meets

a man

who has a job in Singapore.

so she goes with

him.

it's what people do who

are first in love.

overwhelmed

by emotion.

she lives there for a week.

it's too hot.

the bugs.

the food.

the language.

she misses home.

she misses her cat and dog.

her lawn.

her friends.

but what about love,

the man says,

as she packs her bag.

she shrugs,

i know, but i have to go.

so long.

he's a better me

the man

who stole my identity

is living in

my house now.

i dropped my wallet on the subway

and he became

me.

he's walking my

dog, taking my kids

to school,

making love to my wife.

everyone is happy now,

i stand out

in the street

and watch him, as he

paints the shutters

and mows the lawn,

digs up the weeds.

he's in the backyard

now

cooking on the grill,

saying hi

to the neighbors.

he's friendly.

no one seems to miss me.

the real me.

in fact,

he's a better me, 

in that

i don't disagree.

a postcard from Venice

of course

it was beautiful.

the architecture, the haze

of blue

in the air.

the scent of history,

of a thousand years.

it was exactly like every movie

or postcard

you had ever seen.

the gondolas.

the men in striped shirts.

the little shops,

the canals,

St. Marks with its

innumerable pigeons.

the glass blowers

and artists,

but then

there was us. a lot of us.

off cruise

ships and buses.

taking pictures and selfies.

an hour of walking

around,

then on our way.

to be continued

i ask the kid,

who is

religiously at the corner

for the last two years

with a sign,

how long can he do this?

he looks at me

and says

it's the governments fault.

he's clean,

well dressed, tanned,

a sideways

hat on, but other than that

he doesn't look

too disheveled

and crazy.

then the light changes

so he goes

back to the start of 

his walk.

reviewing the rules again

didn't we have

this argument last week,

i ask

the love of my life, Betty.

yes, we did, she says.

motioning for me to get

my feet off

the coffee table,

and to put a coaster

under my drink,

but perhaps we should

review what we said

before, the rules 

that we're set.

come on, do we have to?

yes, we do.

you don't seem to listen.

the argument is now

in session.

i have the floor.

the short life of mittens

the mitten

period of your life,

ends when

you're about four.

after that you need fingers.

you have

stuff to do.

you need them

to open things,

scratch things, put

them where they don't

belong.

you'll never wear

another pair

of mittens again once

you figure that out.

mittens no more, no

matter how

cold it gets, or how

much snow falls.

room for rent at the beach

the rental

room

at the beach

smelled like teenagers had

been living there.

the sink

backed up.

with a toilet overflowed.

a hovering cloud

of joints smoked.

body odor.

and pizza.

a bar of Irish Spring

on the sink.

orange peels

in the disposal.

la dee da and everyone

don't be famous.

you don't want that.

you don't need that.

be a ghost.

anonymous and free.

you don't want

la dee da and everyone

saying hello to you

when you walk

down the street.

your clutter and mine

we have different ideas

of what clutter is.

to you,

it's books and paper,

magazines strewn

across the tables.

shoes and coats, draped

over chairs.

empty glasses on

the sill.

matches and candles

on small dessert plates.

pencils and pens on

the floor.

boxes at the top of the stairs.

for me it's people.

a penny saved

your savings

will

not save you.

the equity in your house.

the penny jar,

the inheritance.

stocks and bonds.

crypto, whatever that is.

there is no silver

lining to this life.

no one

gets out alive.

you take nothing with

you

to the other side.

eat, drink and be merry,

then it's off

into the sky.

the power washer

have you lost

the thrill of your electric power

washer?

is it over

with the leaky

hose, cumbersome

wire

and long metal

nose. are you done with

cleaning

the brick, the patio,

the car,

the bike, the shed.

scouring

the world of mildew

and dirt

that's so quick to return.

so many

hours invested,

so much noise and effort.

but it was

fun while it

lasted.

here, have a go at it.

start it up and hold on.

it's your turn.

unreadable

 a thick

book of fiction, is not always

palpable

enough to read,

but you find other uses

for it.

War and Peace

or Ulysses.

it holds a window up,

allowing

the breeze,

or the door 

from closing.

it's not a first edition,

so who cares.

let the dog nibble

at its cover, tear

at the dried pages,

of so many unread leaves.

not even a small sting?

a bee swings

in,

and hovers

near my arm, but

changes

his mind

and wanders off

in noisy fashion.

but

i'm a little offended

that he didn't

find me

savory enough

to sting or take a bite.

weathered

even

brick in time will

crumble,

the stones of love

stacked

strong and high,

the weather

will

see to it.

circumstances

beyond your control.

although you wish

it weren't true,

nothing last forever.

trust me

on that.

i'll get the light

i don't

want to know you

that well.

i want to

skim

the surface of you.

of your

skin, covering heart

and bone.

i don't want to dig deep

into your

psyche

and find darkness.

let's pretend our

happiness is true.

stay where you are,

i'll get the light,

don't move.

we'll see tomorrow

when struck

by personal misfortune

it's hard to disagree

with Wallace Stevens

that the world

is sad, and the people

are ugly.

but come morning,

in the arms of a loved

one, with a new day ahead,

you may see things

differently.

just maybe.

the clothesline

the stiff

breeze against

her face,

her hair pulled back.

the chill of wet grass

against her

feet.

a basket of

wet clothes

beside her.

a pocket full of clothespins.

one wooden

one

between her teeth.

this is how she got away.

a vacation

from the chaos inside,

three times

a week.

the last stop

as the young man

straightens his tie

and 

sits down,

he hands us a brochure

of the senior

home.

there's a pool he says.

inside

and out.

pickleball,

tennis for those who

still can

get around.

there's a cafeteria too,

bowling,

and if you go with

the two bedroom deluxe

unit,

you'll have a very nice

view

of the park.

there's a nurse on staff.

a cleaning

crew.

these units

will go fast,

so please, don't hesitate

too long.

you'll love it here

and they'll love you.

black and white photographs

we

were young.

we had uncles and aunts,

cousins.

we would gather

in south Philly,

in the yards and streets.

everyone

was alive then.

everyone still had

had time.

there was food and music.

dancing.

long nights 

in candlelight yards.

it was different then.

it's different now.

how quickly

it all goes by.

the Krispy Creme hot sign is on

my friend

Jocko, tells me that he just

can't lose

the last fifteen pounds

around his belly.

yeah.

visceral fat is tough,

i tell him.

what, he says.

what kind of fat?

visceral.

it's a thick yellow layer

of fat

under your skin.

you get it from fried

foods and beer,

sugar,

trans fats.

seed oils. bread.

potato chips, junk like

that.

donuts.

you mean i have to stop

eating donuts

to slim down?

yup.

forget about it, he says.

hey look the hot sign

is on

across the street.

Krispy Creme,

my treat.

it's this giant hole in the earth

you have to,

you just have to go and see

the Grand Canyon,

she says.

let's rent a Winnebago

and drive out

there.

you have to see it.

but i have seen it, i tell

her, my hand

deep into a bag of Cheetos.

when,

when did you see it.

i saw it on tv and in the movies.

North by Northwest,

and other 

movies.

i've seen the moon too,

so don't make any plans

to go there either.

i'm not going.

buyers remorse

thirty thousand

dollars

later,

after the sit down dinner,

the carriage

ride through

town,

the band no longer

playing,

and her at last

out of the wedding

gown,

she stares at

the bauble

on her finger

and has second thoughts.

her name is Clare

i start a relationship

with a new

humanoid robot,

fresh off the factory line,

a subsidiary

of Tesla.

her name

is Clare.

she's almost perfect.

shapely

in those ways

that most men prefer.

she cooks,

she cleans. she makes

love.

and never complains.

i only have to recharge her,

once a day.

she has

skin soft as velvet,

silk like hair.

she's always nice,

polite,

an excellent companion.

if i'm late,

or distant and tired,

she just smiles,

i never have

to explain.

what's that on your face?

no,

it's not leprosy,

or

monkey pox.

it's not some rare

disease

airborne

by a sneeze.

no it's just a blemish

that the dermatologist

put her gun to,

pointing

and then squeezing

the trigger

to freeze.

i should be good

by Tuesday.

allowable once

more to be seen.

learning just enough to sound smart

we dabble

in this and that.

far from becoming an expert.

but we learn

the buzz words

which we throw around

to make it seem

as if we know

everything there is

to know

about almost anything.

it's in a book,

in our phone,

tid bits of knowledge

at our fingertips.

i do it all

the time with narcissism

and borderlines.

ants on a mission

it's a line of black

ants

in the kitchen, an army

of ants marching,

with barrels

of crumbs and sugar

on their

backs.

i want to talk with them,

these soldiers,

tell them

to stop, to show

me where they're going.

no need to work

this hard,

my friends,

i'll personally deliver

whatever you need,

just show me how

you got in.

there are weeds to pull

the broken gate will

be fixed,

so will the tile on the roof

where the

rain gets in.

those steps that creak,

not to worry come Saturday

i'm on it.

thank you

for reminding me of all

the chores i have

to do.

it keeps us from talking

and deciding

what's next with us,

what will we do?

no counting sheep

it's easy

to fall asleep now.

simple.

a pleasant way to end

a day

of work.

hard work.

the mind at ease with

bills paid.

the house

in order. there's no

hunger here,

no drama, per se,

nothing that bothers

you,

or keeps you awake.

getting the blood out

i saw her

at the sink, scrubbing

madly at

her blouse.

murmuring

to herself as she

pushed a bar

of soap

into the stain.

what are you doing?

i asked her.

i'm trying

to get the blood out

she said,

tearfully,

it's too late though.

with blood, it's always

difficult to get it out.

things are

never quite the same.

after six weeks of texting and phone calls

he was a large

man,

she told me. speaking of her

long awaited

blind date

at the Italian restaurant.

he was pleasant

enough, but

i felt

nothing that made me

want to see him again.

he had nice

blue eyes

and pulled the chair out

for me.

he was generous.

kind

and thoughtful, 

eager, as recently

widowed or divorced 

men often are.

then

he tried to kiss me

when he walked me to my

car,

but i turned my cheek

avoiding his lips.

he said, okay, okay.

i'm sorry, then drove off.

the motorcycle crash

i see

the wreck, the spill of metal,

glass,

the traces

of what was

spread out across the road.

all lit up

by the lights of

red engines,

blue swirls of patrol

cars.

and there,

wrapped in white, lies

the body.

heavy in the tall grass,

waiting for what's next,

no longer

in a hurry.

pale and pretty

pale

and pretty,

this quiet of sand

and sea.

the swim of gulls.

the pull of a freighter

along

the curve

of earth, plowing

it's path

in the distance,

disappearing as if magic.

despite

the ethereal joy

of the moment.

you know, you know

so well

that none of it 

will last.

i can walk from here

i can

walk from here, i tell

the cab

driver.

let me out here.

i reach over the seat

and drop

him his money.

but it's raining, he says.

i can take

you the next three

blocks,

we're almost there.

it's okay,

i tell him.

i like walking in the rain.

go on,

go on, it's okay.

i'm alright.

hurry, you're going to

miss the light.

still life painting

her

still life painting hangs

on my wall.

a vase

with flowers,

a bowl of fruit.

there's a sheen,

a bright

lacquer giving

shine to it all.

i remember when

the canvas

was white, blank

with imagination.

it took me to leave 

and her to stay,

for her to fill it and

make the world right.

i'll pencil you in

i pencil you in,

because i know at some point

i'll get

the call

telling me that you can't

make it

tonight, or tomorrow.

something has come

up again.

it's fine, i get it.

with you i've put away

the ink pen.

they know better

we're supposed to care,

obligated

to give a damn

about what an actor says,

a celebrity.

someone

in the lime light.

running

and jumping, swinging

for the fence.

they must know

and understand the world

better than we do.

they give us

hope,

what they believe

and tell us, gives 

us all a chance.

a Stanley Kowalski moment

i have a bone

to pick

with you, she says, coming

home from work,

throwing down

her briefcase.

you parked your car

in the parking

spot in front of the house.

my spot.

we agreed that that would

be my spot

after we got married.

i'm at the kitchen

table

tearing into a rotisserie chicken,

holding a greasy bone

in my hand.

it's ironic, i tell her,

you have a bone

to pick with me

and i'm holding a bone in

my hand right now

when you say that.

she's not in a humorous

mood though.

no surprise there.

i almost call her Blanche,

but don't.

a full day

it's not

a wasted day. not at all.

i got a lot

of thinking done,

got 

some serious pondering

out of the way.

took a walk.

scrambled some eggs.

stared out the back window

for a while.

read some pages

in a book.

wrote a bunch of throw

away poems.

listened to music.

looked out the kitchen

window as people came

home from work.

turned the television on,

then turned it off.

finally got dressed.

after taking

a cat nap and a cold shower.

it's been a good day.

not a single minute wasted.

now what?

when his ship came in

Jake,

in the years before he died

of lung

cancer, used to talk

longingly

about

the money he would one

day inherit,

once the land was sold.

family land,

from three generations

back.

civil war land.

he'd get this look in his

eyes, paint

brush in his hand, and

say, 

one day, one day.

i'm going to build a cabin

in the woods,

up there in the hills

where i can't be bothered.

i could have a dog

and maybe a bunch

of rabbits.

my own still.

he'd get this big grin on

his face,

a cigarette dangling

between his lips.

maybe i could find a good

woman up there too.

someone to keep me warm

at night.

we'd love each other.

that's nice, Jake i'd tell him.

that's nice.

but be careful, you're dropping

ashes into the paint.

you can stop talking now

it's the lidocaine

that hurts,

squirted from

a needle beneath

my skin,

not the scraping

of a scalpel

against my scalp.

so how's your love

life,

the dermatologist

asks, trying to distract me,

as she

drops a piece

of my skin into a little

plastic cup,

then seals the lid.

it has it's ups and down,

i tell her.

you know.

it's not unlike a box

of chocolates out there.

i had a date last

weekend

with this girl from

Sperryville,

Misty, was her name.

okay, the doctor says.

you can stop talking now.

we're done.

the subway in nines

i like

the old couple on the subway.

quietly together,

unafraid,

with cane

in hand,

dressed up for the night.

a white silk

scarf,

a top hat, and her

in pearls,

and black, 

dressed to the nines

as they say.

off to a show, like

they did

in the years before you

were even

born.

casually disappearing

into their

Saturday nights.

enjoying life.

one more night, please

it's a strange

thing,

being human, the moods

we swing through,

for better

or worse.

the happy times,

the blues.

we're almost always

searching for something

or someone.

perpetually worried

and confused.

and yet we want more.

we want another

day,

another night.

we want to keep it going,

despite

the mystery of it all.

we want to be a better

person,

have another chance,

despite the fails.

she reminds me of you

she reminds me of you.

except

for the red hair,

the green eyes,

and the long legs.

she laughs more than

you,

is smarter, prettier,

and easier to get along with.

she's stable and secure

and loves to cook.

she's never even had

electroshock therapy,

or needed an exorcism,

but still,

she reminds me of you.

i'm not sure why exactly,

but i'll figure it out

at some point.

punching the clock

i make a list of all the jobs

i've either quit,

been fired from, or got laid

off from.

digging ditches,

washing dishes,

hanging pink battens

of insulation

while standing on a pair

of stilts.

carpenter's helper.

mopping halls and cutting

grass.

paper boy. hauling bricks

in wheel barrows.

washing cars.

shoveling snow.

factory worker.

pumping gas.

computer programmer.

selling clothes.

they all stunk, each and

every one of them.

but i had a car, a home.

food. sports.

and money to spend when

i went out dancing

and carousing

with my friends.

even my dog had a bone.

just a little of the top

i've had the Bobby Sherman 

hair cut in my youth,

the Beaver Cleaver

style with a part

when twelve.

i've had the mullet for an hour

or two in

the 70's.

with purple pants and

a polyester blouse.

the Elvis look in junior high.

the beach boy look

for a while, then

the Woodstock doo,

with a ponytail,

flashing the peace sign.

the buzz cut ala 
Clint Eastwood.

now i'm down to Curly,

with that clean

aerodynamic look

of one of the stooges.

i have ten minutes on Tuesday

it doesn't matter who they are,

doctor,

lawyer, bum,

pastry chef,

or a teacher.

no one has the time

anymore, ten minutes

to call their own.

dog walkers,

clerks,

retired people at the lake

throwing

bread to the ducks.

it doesn't matter.

we're all on the clock.

is there anyone

not busy? not looking

at their

watch,

their notepad,

their phone?

checking in with someone

else

to get free, to have

a spare moment.

is there anyone you can

call and say,

hey,

let's go have a bite,

a drink,

a chat,

come on, let's go?

not many. almost none.

Farah's red bathing suit poster

basically

glue

doesn't work, at least

for very long.

but i give it a shot,

seeing the ad

with 

a three hundred pound

gorilla

hanging from a skyscraper

girder

above New York

with one hairy arm.

if a little dot of glue

can hold

a gorilla, surely

it can hold

this classic and very

valuable poster of Farah

Fawcett in a red

bathing suit

on the wall.

SexySadie

i think we met

a long

time ago on an internet

dating site,

she tells me.

i look at her as we

stand

in the grocery store.

both of us staring at

a pile of asparagus.

maybe, i tell her.

what's your name.

oh, i went by SexySadie,

but my real

name is Marsha.

weren't you the Italian

Stallion?

no, that wasn't me.

that was my brother.

i went by Joey123.

oh, right right.

we had drinks and calamari

one night about

twenty years ago, then

you walked me

back to my car.

hmm. i tell her, could be

me.

what happened next.

well, she says, beginning to

blush.

we dated for a few years,

got married

and had two children.

don't you remember?

nah. it's all a blur now,

i did a lot of binge dating

back then, but

look, i have to run.

nice seeing you again.

it's your life

it's a loud noise,

i tell

the mechanic, like a popping

sound,

but not like

popping popcorn,

or stepping on bubble wrap,

more of a thud

kind of noise. like

a very small thunder

clap coming from under

the hood,

but only when it's cold

out, or the engine

is cold.

he scratches his head

with a ratchet

wrench he's holding in his

greasy hand.

uh uh, he says.

we'll take a look at it.

are you going to wait

or need a shuttle?

i'll wait i tell him.

he shrugs and says, okay.

your life. do what you want.

go over there

and sit down.

who is this?

i miss

the strange voiceless

calls,

the heavy breathing.

the silence.

all the fun and guessing

has been taken

out of the phone

calls at three a.m.

with caller I D.

the good old days

are truly gone.

no milk at the door.

no fuller brush man.

even Mormons

seem to be taking a break

from knocking

anymore.

mid summer soup

it hurts,

the pinch of burned tongue

touching

a much too hot

bowl

of soup.

what are you doing eating

soup in

the middle of the summer

anyway?

lesson learned

again.

you must

blow hard on the spoon,

wave

your hand across

the pond of steam.

dip your head with caution,

lips parted,

now sip gently.

the bug has you

it's hard

for the actor to stop acting,

even in casual

conversation, he's on,

or the writer

to stop

writing. observing

in his

head what he'll

transcribe later

before bed.

you see the artists

scratching

in the dirt or sand,

carving

things in wood.

the singer

in the shower belting

out,

a song.

the musician in the car,

tapping

his hands

on the dashboard.

once you have the bug,

the bug

has you.

it looks like a frying pan

aliens,

really?  everyone has a phone

with a camera,

a video

camera.

we have satellites,

and telescopes

everywhere.

not one has shown up

on my Ring camera.

so where are they?

these men

from mars,

women from Venus,

insects

from some far away

galaxy?

where be you

star

people?

are you ready for

your close up.

are you that shy?

we want more than

some blurred

blip

on a screen that looks

like

a frying pan

without the handle.

we want Oprah to interview

you.

come on, show your

face, you

interstellar creatures.

burrowed in the brush

clever, the red fox,

behind

the tree, angled down

in brush,

barely seen

as i take the trash

to the curb.

he's patient with the sun,

with our

eventual lights

going off,

one by one.

he has all night,

to quiver still,

waiting for us to fall

asleep.

the silent treatment

my father

used to punish my mother

with the silent treatment.

maybe she

burned his toast,

or didn't iron

his shirts properly,

my ex

used to do the same to me,

when i asked

her why she was still

secretly seeing

her married boyfriend,

her ex-husband,

a random man she met

on the street.

baby driver

yesterday

the kid was in a stroller,

where did

fifteen years go?

i see him now behind

the wheel

of his father's car,

his father nervously

buckled in,

both happy

and scared at the same

time.

i wait before i pull

out.

cow juice

as i drink

from the glass half gallon

of A2 milk,

whole milk, thick

and creamy,

i stumble upon

a posting online

from Dr. Berg,

that milk might not be

good for you after all.

stay away from dairy,

he says,

holding up a chart

showing an actuary table

of milk drinkers,

stating their early demise.

quickly i spit it out.

which pleases the cat

and dog, who come

running.

paranoia

someone is jiggling

the doorknob

on the other side

of the door.

i peer into the peephole,

and i see another

eye looking back at me.

what? i ask.

who is that?

what do you want?

everything, the man says.

everything you got.

you can let us in now,

or we can come back

after you're gone.

okay, okay.

later would be better.

we got to get out of this place

what about Iceland,

she asks me,

we could go there.

they have the lowest

crime rate

in the world.

but is it cold there?

i ask.

yeah, i guess so.

they do have Ice in the name,

but

that's okay. we have

coats and hats.

gloves.

i still haven't worn

the scarf and mittens

my mother made

me for Christmas

last year.

crack pipe vending machines

they legalize

the dope, put crack pipes

in vending machines.

society

has given up.

free needles

for everyone.

the prisons are too full.

let them

drive wasted

on the freeway,

shoot up the schools.

let it all go to hell in a

handbasket,

tents, and shopping

carts.

beggars on every

corner.

the cities are on fire.

has the apocalypse

arrived

already?

the freeze gun

the doctor

takes her freeze gun

and has as field day

on my skin.

i take my shirt off,

my pants and

around and around

she goes.

from head to toe.

oh my, she says.

growing up you really

did like the sun

didn't you?

manual labor

it's a job.

a real job. one where

you set the alarm

and get up

and go.

it's one where you sweat,

and work.

using your hands

as well

as your brain, your

legs, your

shoulders.

there is struggle

and strain.

you bleed.

it's a real job.

you aren't at home

in your pajamas

with a cup

of tea

typing in your password,

your name.

it's a real job,

and when you get home,

you eat,

you drink, you play.

and then

you sleep,

which comes easily, because

you have a job,

a real job,

not one with the tv on

as you waste away.

don't be a project

i see the word

assembly

required, and move on.

give me

the thing ready,

done.

completed.

i don't need another project,

i don't want to build,

nail after nail,

tightening screws.

sorting through

a jumbled box

of pieces.

come to me as you are

meant to be

finished.

sturdy, reliable,

ready for use.

and by the way,

this includes you.

waiting on sleep to arrive

she fell asleep on the train,

her head

resting on my shoulder.

i had the window seat,

and stared at the world

rolling by.

the trees and water,

the churches with weddings

in progress,

past the cemeteries,

the factories, the abandoned

houses, the litter

and all the beauty.

mile after mile.

the rust of it all.

the sheen of new.

there were children,

men and women

on porches.

standing at windows,

white haired,

and thin,

some waving as the train

passed by.

it was everything and

nothing.

this world outside.

at last i was tired enough,

i closed my eyes.

ashes in a can

where

will the ashes go?

back home?

which is where?

what sea,

what ocean, what

country

shall we toss him

into the air.

and be done.

look at how easily

they fly

away.

a single life

tucked in a can,

now gone.

shooting at Paradiso

there was a shooting

at the strip

club

the other night.

the cops arrived, the crowd

came out

to witness

the bodies lying in

a pool blood

in the parking lot.

even the dancers came

out in their

stockings and thin

robes,

teetering in

high heels, with

dollar bills still stuck

to their legs.

and then someone,

the boss, a barrel

of a man

yelled out, nothing

to see here,

back to work

girls.

on with the show.

another batch of humans

people haven't given up,

have they?

the yards

are full of children.

what

are other sign of hope

is more

important

than that. perhaps

the next

batch of humans will

figure this out.

get it right, at last.

a longer spin cycle, perhaps?

maybe my

clothes aren't bright enough,

the whites

whiter, the colors

more pronounced,

maybe i'm using the wrong

detergent.

should i go with

the condensed powder,

or the liquid.

do i go with soft

wash, or cold.

have i cheated myself on

the spin cycle?

do i use bleach, perhaps

a cap full

of softener, or a ply

of scented

chemicals in the dryer.

i need to

analyze my washing procedures.

maybe take a class 

at night at the community

center.

my clothes seem

to have a sour odor, 

a swampy smell to them,

having left them wet

in the washer overnight,

this could be directly

related to being home alone

on the weekends.

weeding the yard

after early morning

church, you'll find

the old

man in his yard,

bent

over

raking, spreading

mulch.

digging weeds.

the neighbor

and his wife are gone

now.

they went south.

a new family will arrive

soon

to introduce themselves.

maybe his

children

will stop by, his ex wife,

to see how

he's getting along.

bring him clothes

and cakes, help

him charge his phone.

he wonders

as he rests in the sun,

sitting on the steps,

what the point was

in all of this.

what was it all about?

what could go wrong?

it's not rocket science,

but

it feels that

way as i lay out the diagrams,

without words,

vague sketches

of how the bookcase

should be made.

there's a drawing

of each nail

and screw, bolt and cam,

drawn to size

and numbered.

i turn on the big light.

the small light

and put a flashlight in

my hand.

i separate the twelve

pieces of pressed

wood from

the box,

then find a hammer,

a screw driver,

and a gin

and tonic, what could go

wrong?

in three or four hours,

i'll have an answer.

the dead sea scroll

the clerk,

young as young can be,

peach fuzzed,

and exhausted from

being up so early,

searches

the newspaper

for a bar code, 

turning it side to side,

with a quizzical

look on his blank face,

but it's oblivious he's never

seen one of these. 

this ancient scroll

from some dead sea,

so i tell him, try the back

at the very bottom,

and he finds it.

then searches the paper,

section by section,

looking for more.

i stop him and tell him,

that's all there is.

there are no more.

the carvings

some kid

came along and etched his name

in the tree

in our yard.

he thought his

love still lived here,

though she moved

a long time ago.

i could see the sickness

in his eyes as

he carved his name

and hers

together.

i watched from the window.

understanding 

the trouble of love

and not letting go.

the shark bite

shyly,

she shows

me the scar on her leg,

lifting up

the hem

of her skirt,

shark,

she says.

he took a bite of me

on the gulf coast.

my turn

i tell her,

and begin to nibble

gently

on her neck

hoping she doesn't

swim away.

pulling the car over

as i pull

the car over to the side

of the road

to give the wild children

a tongue lashing,

but sprinkled with

love and care

i realize

that i don't have any

children,

that i'm not even in

a car.

but it would be nice

to be there.

unconditional love

there is none,

not really, we all draw lines

in the sand.

we have boundaries

and rules

to go by. lines

that can't

be crossed.

i think you should

know by now,

it's over.

i hope you understand.

so let go

of my heart.

my hand. there's no love

for you anymore.

nothing dies

no matter

how low i cut the vines,

or sever the roots

of brush,

and shrub

in late summer,

i'm always surprised

come spring

at how everything

i once thought dead

is still alive.

you will always be alone

i know

what you're thinking.

so

don't say it. don't utter

a single

word.

the fog

has lifted, the ship

is in port.

take your luggage

and your life

and begone.

don't turn and wave,

safe travels,

with the wind in 

your sails.

i know that you 

will always be alone.

another glass of milk

i come back

to milk.

i've missed it.

the tall cold glass,

white,

leaving a fine froth

upon

my lips.

i've missed you

whole milk,

labeled A2

from the creamery.

how a nice

a word is that?

creamery. organic

thick as glue.

pour me another.

i can almost hear

the moo.

finding a corner

not good at small talk,

i find

a chair on the far

side of the room,

near the dog

asleep

on the floor.

we get along just fine.

no talk

of politics, no jokes

or flattery, no

talk of weather, or wars,

or money.

tell me about your

wine cellar,

your new car? 

your trip to Singapore, no,

none of that,

with fido, it's a wonderful

time.

the early red flag

she said she could cook.

i believed

her.

i believed nearly everything

she told me.

how could i not.

just look at her,

an angel.

a beauty from above.

but

when the stove

caught fire,

catching the curtains,

the rug,

setting off the alarm,

and filling the house

with smoke,

i began wonder.

teaching your children

if you grow

up

in chaos and fear,

parents battling

through

the night.

the adrenaline rush is in

your veins.

drama on the high seas.

it's home to you,

the broken

glass, the violence,

the cut

wires.

it's what you know and

what you'll

seek in another,

wrongly,

not knowing there is

a real thing,

called peace and quiet.

love without fear.

at a certain age

to each

child the question looms

at a certain

age,

about life and death.

the road

ahead.

is there a God,

is there

hell or heaven, or has

someone made

it all up

to keep us in line.

to keep

us wondering

to keep our heads

down,

hands on the wheel, 

quietly biding our time.

it's not you at all

in the store window,

the reflection, of course,

is not you,

it's an imaginary

glimpse

of light and form,

not you

at all, for you are still

young,

bright and strong,

and it's not your age

that others

hold the door, no,

it's politeness,

kindness if you may,

the reason that

the boy

or girl helps you

across the road.

someone that you love

if you

find me, be careful, be gentle.

ignore

the words

i've written,

the hard false shell

i've made.

ignore my wounds as you

help me to the bath,

then to the bed.

read to me,

pray with me.

lay down beside me.

pretend if you have to

that i'm someone

that you love.

the best teachers

you remember their

names,

the best teachers,

who broke

your heart, gave you f's

and d's,

made you stay

after class until you

learned

a little bit more.

they cracked the whip,

slapped you

around,

until you finally

understood the lesson,

raised your

grades to a B or C.

the other teachers

you have no

memory of.

another box for the closet

i need another box

to put

more things in that i don't need

or want,

and will never

use, but can't bear

to throw away.

step gently

over the lid, as you can see,

i've made room

for you too.

you have a plan

i understand

that you aren't pleased

with me.

i see it

in your brow, your

once

pretty

face, a bright star,

darkened now.

i see it in the way

your arms

are crossed, the way your

head has become heavy

in your hands.

all of it,

even the tears you shed,

tells me

that you have a plan.

so little matters

the cold

water is not surprising.

it awakens

you.

quickens you

to dive

and go below.

to swim out, away

from the shore,

far from

the shallows

where you can touch

a bottom.

to swim and swim

beneath the surface,

to hold your breath

until

you can't hold it

anymore,

then to look back

at what

little was little behind

that truly

mattered.

this is what you came

here for?

where to go

tired

of people. of road rage.

of rudeness,

the lack

of courtesy, the lack

of spirituality.

tired

of ego.

of self indulging

half

baked souls,

weary

of narcissism

in the young

and old

alike.

just one day would

be nice

to not hear a single

lie told.

the mid life crisis

what's wrong,

she asks, hand on my hand,

as i sit

and cry

on the front steps.

what is it that troubles you?

from the outside

looking in, you

lack nothing,

what's wrong with you?

nothing,

i tell her, nothing at all.

it's just a mid

life crisis of some sort.

that's all.

really, don't worry yourself

about me.

which makes her laugh,

as she wipes away my tears,

then says,

do you really believe you're

going to live

until you're a hundred

and fifty?

the truth be known

the woods are

filled in quite nicely with

its usual

green.

thickly covered is every

limb of every tree.

you can no longer

see the water,

the blue sleeve of stream.

come winter though.

it will all be clear

again. the branches

grey and bare,

their truth be known.

everything will be known

and seen.

death gives you that.

what's going on?

it's goes

without question

that things have gone

awry.

you can

feel it in the air,

see it

in a stranger's eye,

there's

a chord of chaos

on the street,

things around here

aren't what they

used to be.

on your doorstep

it was

bound to happen,

America

infecting the world

with its own

idea

of what happiness

looks like.

it's red,

it's white, it's blue,

and comes in all sizes.

tomorrow

or today,

and for just an extra pence,

it's delivered

on your doorstep,

just for you.

she poured him milk

her husband,

prosperous and quiet,

neat

in his bow tie and starched

shirt,

always at the table

with a cold

glass of milk, that

she poured,

knew little, as

he and her

wanted it to be.

why kill the cow,

with knowledge of her

life long chore

of infidelity.

of being born

without a cell

of creativity within her,

no skill

at song, or word,

art.

she turned

to what

she could do

in order to thwart off

the demons

that troubled

her soul.

in her hands she took

to butter

and cream, sugar, eggs,

all swished

together in

the large bowl.

there was order to her

life now, control.

the recipe,

the set time and temperature

of the oven.

the layered cakes,

and shaped by hand

muscles of dough,

at last there was

some vague sense of being

part of this world,

of being born.

type in banana

they know

what we want, type

in ripe bananas

and the next that appears

are monkeys

and islands.

costa rican

bikinis,

and coconut trees.

yellow

cars and sunsets.

clothes

and books, movies

you haven't seen.

it's all there, at your

fingertips

anything to do with

bananas

is now

a link to your screen.

close calls

we have

close calls, with tacks

and nails,

shards of glass, 

missing injury by

mere inches, or seconds,

car crashes

somehow avoided.

the tree limb

falling as you just

pass by.

the snake, slithering

between your

feet,

the shark in the water

bumping

your leg.

lighting mysteriously

striking a tree

as you stand in the rain.

it's a lifetime of near

misses.

it just isn't your time yet,

as your car

crosses the tracks

a split second before

a roaring train.

the magic carpet ride

the highway

litter

is colorful, the red and blue

plastic,

cups,

lids and straws, hamburger

wrappers.

look over there, it's

a disposable

diaper,

oh, and a gin bottle.

some shoes

are in the trees,

cigarette butts

still burning,

papers

and magazines.

chicken bones,

and crab shells,

in the wind it all flies

around,

it's magical.

oh look, the car

in front of us just threw

something out.

let's take a look,

slow down.

he couldn't wait to go back

my friend Jake,

told me

longingly about his stay

in jail, third

DUI, and a bar fight,

how his cell

had a barred window

with a view

of the morning sun.

single occupancy

with a twin bed.

he said the food was not

too bad.

bacon and eggs,

for breakfast 

and sandwiches for lunch,

chicken dinners,

with jello for dessert

before bed.

he worked on his muscles

in the yard,

and had access to the library

and computer,

and of course unlimited

tv time.

Saturday nights was bingo

or a movie,

or charades. 

occasionally an intense

card game of 

old maid. Sunday was

for church and visitor

hours.

it was the best sixty days

of my life,

he said.

it's reward time

she was a personal

trainer

for years.

i'd see her in her spandex

shorts

and top

yelling at people

at the park.

getting the most out

of them.

demanding them to do

sit ups,

push ups. sprints.

stretching,

and then doing it 

all over again.

very bossy.

but she had nice hair

and nails

and was driving a green

Jaguar.

so she was doing quite

well. but

boy did she crack the whip

on those tubbies,

none of them ever

losing a pound of weight

or getting in shape.

most of them

heading straight to Duck

Donuts when

the session was over.

where'd she go?

the neighbor

is building something next

door.

a long box

of some sort,

that i caught a glimpse

of through

the window.

i hear the hammer,

the saws.

i see him carrying in planks

of wood.

it's just his voice,

with the music

on low.

i haven't seen the wife

lately though.

the arguing

has finally stopped.

a museum piece

it's a tough

decision, but the end of life

telemarketer

brings it up

about once an hour with a robo

call to my

cell phone.

burial or cremation?

he asks

for the twentieth time

today.

i'm still on the fence.

there has to be a kinder,

more civilized way.

maybe stuffed

and propped up in some

museum.

the big salad

they have

to kill everything in the field

to raise

a crop of avocados,

or lettuce.

rabbits

and snakes, turtles,

mice

and what not, birds too,

even worms

get their due,

then they spray

the field with chemicals

to kill off

what's left of life.

in the end there's

not a bug or fly

in sight.

enjoy your salad.

dying in the corner

i should

take down the Christmas tree

at some point.

it's been up

since

December.

the lights are still on,

but i'm

afraid to turn them

on, because of the fire

hazard.

there are no

needles anymore,

it's threadbare,

and bone dry.

i should toss it out

into the woods,

but i can't let go,

it reminds me so much

of hard times.

the life insurance policy

with nine children

in the wind,

that we know of,

i'm careful

to keep the secret that my father

has a million

dollar life

insurance policy

payable upon death,

which by the way,

even at the age of 95,

may never occur,

all the scotch

and soda,

the beer and lucky strike

cigarettes

in him, plus

the sun worshiping,

fighting

and carousing with

fast and slow women,

have somehow

combined

to make an enduring

elixir of perpetual youth.

i've seen

the will and the names,

crossed off,

and uncrossed.

this may be a litigious 

blood bath

at the end.

she finally broke

the first time

i heard

my mother say the f word,

using it in a full

sentence,

with verbs, nouns and adjectives,

i was

taken aback, to put

it mildly so i let

go of my

cry baby sister's pigtails

and muttered,

oh my.

this time i think she's

really mad, i thought.

i hadn't heard

a word like that since my

father was around.

i grabbed my ball

and glove, my bat,

and beat it outside.

the cat in a tree

she liked

the bird with the broken

wing,

the rescue dog,

the cat

caught in a tree.

she adored

the slow turtle

helping it

across the street.

lost

and stray animals

were her thing,

the sick and infirmed,

but when it came

to me,

forget about it.

the old grapevine

the grapes

are withered and grey.

they've lost

interest in the world,

no longer worthy of

what they pass down.

they can't

be trusted anymore

with hearsay

and gossip.

the news is late

in arriving these days,

or not at all.

i'd be better off putting

my ear

to the ground.

i smell what your cooking

is it too early

to take

a nap, i ask her, as she

peels

another potato

into the sink.

she's wearing her

satin black apron.

i nudge her with

an elbow, gently

in the ribs.

oh, i smell what

you're cooking,

she says.

i'll be right up, 

just let me put these

in a pot of water,

on low.

how much time,

we got?

with a whimper

after spilling

an enormous glass

of chocolate milk onto

my password

book.

i begin to cry.

the letters and numbers

run into one another,

smudged out of existence.

it's all gone, all those

years of hard work

coming up

with clever passwords

and non consecutive numbers,

symbols,

now gone to waste.

what am i to do.

how will i ever log

on to amazon again,

to Target

and DSW,

to the DMV, to Medicare and

social security,

Kaiser Permanente?

what about e-harmony,

and tinder and bumble,

and farmgirlsinKalamazoo?

this is how the world

ends, at least my world.

not with a bang, but

with a whimper.

farmer folk

the roadside

stand with their fat red

tomatoes

in wooden boxes

call to you.

the painted arrow

on a board tells you where

to turn

and park.

the corn in stacks,

the onions

and green beans.

they have cider too,

home made

pies and cakes.

crabs are being steamed

in back.

why press on to the beach.

stay here.

camp

and relax.

Bill and Marge,

old farmer folks.

they are too nice to be true.

the further from

the city you go.

life is strangely

less blue.

perpetual

it's that

pause before answering

that gives her

away.

the eyes shifting,

the pull of hair, the shuffle

of feet.

she's selecting

words

to say, to calm you, to

avoid

admission of guilt,

once more.

soon, words will tumble

from her lips.

a word salad

that you've heard so

many times

before.

reluctant to change

have you

changed, no, would be the short

answer.

have you grown,

matured,

leveled out the waters

of your

troubled youth.

no.

not at all, you just hide

it better now,

and smile.

math at night

a word

left unsaid, but hanging

in the air

like a cold balloon

type moon

awakens

you from sleep.

you do the math

in the middle of the night.

the equations

of love.

how far away she is.

how hard

it would be to get there,

to land

and plant the flag

you hold.